


Never Could Catch Up

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Post 3x03 AU, series 3 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4777511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles in which Concetta Strano was not so perceptive at the end of Murder and Mozzarella.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Could Catch Up

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I really wanted an AU where Concetta did not test the state of Jack's heart, and didn't have the time to write a full story. (By the way, I still want to see one. Consider that a challenge!) Decided to do a 100 word drabble per episode, with a couple of extras for framing. I thought it would be an interesting challenge, and requires less attention to plot while waiting for evil toddlers to go to sleep so I could work on my other stuff. Instead I discovered that I will never be satisfied when given a chance to examine word choices on such a small scale, and was reminded why I never got on with most poetry.
> 
> I hope that each episode is easy to distinguish, but if it's too muddled give me a shout and I'll change the formatting so each drabble is labelled with the episode title. 
> 
> Somewhat peripherally inspired by gaslightgallows' Lost Together (which is awesome and need to be updated soon), in that that story reminded me of the existence of the [Blue Rodeo/Oh Susanna cover of Bad Timing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXa0vlNsIVQ&index=14&list=PLxuaaONzLc3cSVYKfCTXBLgheAEQ6vMx9) which tangentially led to the framing drabbles and the title.

It's a crisp autumn night when the telephone rings.  
"City South, Inspector Robinson speaking."  
"Jack?"  
For a moment he doesn't realise who it is. Phryne never sounds that hesitant.  
"Miss Fisher."  
It's been eight months since she flew her father back to England. They hadn't exchanged letters.  
"I thought you should know I'm back in Melbourne. Consider yourself duly warned."  
It's a hollow attempt at banter.  
"Noted."  
"Mr. Butler's made gratin. Mac had to cancel our dinner plans...." her voice trails off, as if she was reconsidering her line of thought. "I imagine you are well fed though. Nevermind. Sorry."

\---

"Not eating Italian tonight?"  
"Concetta made an offer," he says. "I wanted you to know first."  
He sees comprehension dawn on her.  
"I thought-" her lips twist, her brow furrows. It's just a glimpse, then she schools her features and smiles at him. He's pretty sure he's just seen her heart break; his isn't faring any better."No, I'm happy for you. She seems like she'd make you a wonderful wife. All that a man could want. Congratulations."  
He nods.  
"We'll still be friends though, Jack?"  
Her voice warbles, though they both pretend not to hear.  
"Of course, Miss Fisher."

\---

"I hope you're right, and that Hugh comes to his sense."  
She's watching Dot.  
"He will, if I have anything to do with it."  
Phryne gives him that inscrutable look, the one that means she doesn't entirely believe his slip was unintentional but is willing to let it lie.  
"Determined to make all men as happy as you are?" she teases. "A trait newly-engaged men seem to share."  
"It would be a shame for Hugh to lose what he had," replies Jack. "Fear can be paralyzing."  
"And doing the right thing?"  
"Worse."  
"To bravery, then," she toasts.  
"To unthwarted love."

\----

Phryne insists on holding an engagement party.  
"It's more an understanding," Jack argues.  
"Then I will invite understanding people."  
Arguing is futile. He tries, until she touches his hand.  
"It's impossible to repay you for your help. Allow us to celebrate your happiness instead."  
So he finds himself at Wardlow on Saturday night, with champagne and dancing and slight trepidation when he sees Mac and Phryne talking to Concetta.  
As they leave, Concetta gives him a large smile.  
"Gianni, your friends are very kind. Miss Fisher told me a funny story about you and a... ladies' device?"  
Heaven help him.

\---

When he finds her father embroiled in another plot, he keeps Phryne out of it the best he can. She's furious and irrational, and he wants to reassure her that he is not inclined to fall for the Baron's charms.  
Eventually, they are standing alone in the ballroom.  
"When I was small, the Twilight Waltz sounded like real magic" Phryne says. She puts on a record. "Care to dance, inspector?"  
He shouldn't.  
He does.  
When the song is finished, she leans her head against his shoulder for just a moment.  
"Well, that settles it," she says, wistfully pulling away.  
_Magic._

\---

"I hope your Concetta has a sense of humour," Phryne says, practically slamming the newspaper down on Jack's desk. "And if she doesn't, it would serve you right for that horrid joke."  
He glances at the paper in question and feels his stomach drop. That slimy cretin had published the photos. He doesn't even know why he did it- it was a passing amusement, nothing more.  
Too furious to say anything else, Phryne storms out.  
He grabs the newspaper, intending to throw it away. Truly _sees_ the photo for the first time. Smooths it instead, tucks it into a drawer.

\---

It's a beautiful wedding. Two people at the start of their lives, unburdened by ex-wives and ex-lovers and dead husbands. All but the newlyweds have returned to Phryne's house, to toast new beginnings and endings.  
"I never thought you would be the first to leave," she confesses.  
"Neither did I."  
She pecks his cheek when she sees him to the door. Fixes his tie.  
He watches her plane take off the next morning from a nearby road, heart in his throat at the moment he thinks she won't get airborne. As always, he worries needlessly.  
She never knows he's there.

\---

There is a certain poetry when it collapses on the summer solstice. It's such a small thing, a photo used as a bookmark and an indulgence of grief, but neither one of them seems surprised.  
It was always an illusion.  
"I love you," he says, because it's true- he loves Concetta's resilience and her kindness and her gentle nature. He loves what they could have.  
"I know you do. But what chance does the moon have against the sun?"  
The moon is within reach. The sun would incinerate you before you ever touched the surface.  
He always faces the sun.

\---

"I'm on the night shift," he says to her unspoken invitation.  
It's not a yes- he can't, not yet. But it's not a no.  
"Well, gratin is Mr Butler's speciality. If you ever tire of Italian."  
That's Miss Fisher; not particularly perturbed by convention, but respectful of his own limitations.  
"I believe Italian tired of me."  
It sounds nicer than 'the whole thing imploded because I'm wildly in love with you.'  
"A shame. I _am_ sorry."  
"So am I."  
"Well, my parlour is always open and my whiskey flowing."  
He's unsure what to say. He often is.  
"Welcome home, Phryne."


End file.
